Shattered shards of glass. John Watson always disliked cleaning. Senses jumbled, movement slow, he stoops down with some difficulty to gather up the broken vase. With each swipe of the hand, the mess grows, smearing and bright red. It's not too difficult to tune out the sharp pain, he's dealt with worse.
With a handful of the broken pieces, he walks to the rubbish bin. In they go, glittering and gleaming. He does nothing to stop the bleeding or clean his hand; he limps to his seat once more. A seat that faced the large windows, a nice view of the world. The world that goes on without him.
He wakes up. The blood has dried over specks of glass in his hand, and it merely throbs and itches. A buzz from his phone shakes his drowsiness. Grabbing the blasted device, he casts a glance down. Though his fingers obscure most of the screen, he can read bits of the word "Holmes." Mycroft. He was always asking about John's health. Mycroft Holmes, the man who sold his own brother out. The man who agreed that caring was not an advantage, the man who only apologized when everything was hopelessly wrong. John blinks, vision blurring.
Mycroft Holmes, the man who could have done everything, and did nothing.
With a sharp cry of anguish, the shining screen is flung across the dim room, a resounding thnk and clatter echoing from the opposite wall. His dirty, scratched hands go to cover his face.
A shudder, a whimpering noise, then silence.
Three years.
Three years, since his heart stopped and his mind fell. It fell from the rooftop, hitting the cold pavement. The sudden cries and consoling voices of sympathy and shallow apologies did nothing. Why would they? How could they understand? People with whom he was only familiar, friends who never called until the funeral, the closer ones who barely knew. They didn't understand.
He rises from his seat. The throbbing, numbed. Worn cane in hand, he moves to the door slowly. A rhythmic, unsteady beat of his feet hitting the soft carpet. The creak of the front door, swung wide open. A step forward. A look back to the dimly lit screen of his phone on the floor. He wonders to himself.
How far is Barts Hospital?
How long will it take before one of the not-so-secretive black cars realizes that John is nowhere to be seen?
They don't put security cameras on rooftops, do they?
He's got a dull smile on his face now, vacant eyes reminiscing. Nobody would notice.
The door clicks shut. He doesn't bother locking the door. He doesn't need to.
The phone sits in silence. Nobody is there to pick it up from the floor, nobody is there to read the text. Its screen stays lit for a few more seconds.
I'm still alive.
-Sherlock Holmes
The screen goes black.
AN: Hiya! I just thought I'd try out writing fanfiction again. It might be a bit too vague. This thing made more sense in my head. I might draw up a comic to go with this! Sorry, I'm shit at writing.